


Die Spitze

by Linguam



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, That random Skiing AU you never knew you wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Linguam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For one, blessedly naïve moment, Athos thinks that he might actually make it, because it’s Aramis, and he can swear to it that he’s never met anyone with such devilish luck in his entire life.</p><p>But Mother Fortuna isn’t smiling today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this isn't another installment of the SSVA series, but fear not, they're well underway. Thing is I'm trying to post them according to a predetermined order, and the upcoming story is throwing a rather impressive temper tantrum at the moment. So in the meantime, I hope this will work to appease you (also, it's been sitting on my laptop since Christmas, so it's well past time I shared it with you). I spent an almost embarrassing amount of hours researching for this but, God, did I enjoy it! (not too sure the boys share my excitement... *coughs*)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

It had been snowing when they left the hotel this morning.

There was a layer of powder a few inches thick, covering the ground, the cars, and the bushes alongside the hotel entrance. The air was crisp, though more refreshing than biting, every sound subdued in the small-town valley. Flakes still fell lazily from a grey sky when they got into their car, giving the mountainous surroundings an almost unearthly feel.

A quick check on the temperature sign when they arrived at the course reveals it to be 26 F.

All in all, it’s as close to ideal as it can get, Athos contemplates as he looks up the slope at the next skier taking the stand. The snow stopped falling some time ago and the ground will be more crud than powder now, but still, it’s good conditions.

And d’Artagnan will undoubtedly enjoy the extra challenge, he thinks wryly.

There’s the usual succession of _beep-beep-beep-beeeep_ ringing out over the course.

And then he’s off.

Athos forces out a slow, even breath. He’s grateful for Porthos’ steady presence at his side, fairly convinced that it’s the major reason why he manages to obtain at least a semblance of normalcy.

This is it, he thinks, willing the tension in his shoulders to ease as d’Artagnan passes through the first gate. This is what they’ve been training for the entire season.

Sometimes, he forgets how raw d’Artagnan really is: that this is the boy’s first season with them. True, he’s been skiing in Junior Olympics and, like the rest of them, he spends more time _on_ skis than _off_ skis. But this is different. More media coverage. More pressure – especially for a young newcomer with a rising star label…

There’s a spray of snow when he turns – not too crud, then – but not excessively so. He’s angulating nicely, body close to horizontal against the ground when he passes between the poles.

He still has a tendency to take too wide turns, Athos thinks abstractedly, following the youngsters progress with trained eyes. Not much, but enough that he loses valuable hundreds.

They’ll have to work on that.

This is the moment where Aramis would normally lean in and tell him to stop thinking so loudly and just enjoy the race, but he’s only a ghost of a whisper at Athos’ other side.

The downhiller had been the one to complain the loudest at missing d’Artagnan’s first run, threatening to stalk down to the organizer’s booth and demand they change the day of the downhill race.

Athos sometimes found his friend’s exclamations bordering too much on the dramatic, but it had brought a smile to d’Artagnan’s lips and erased some of the youngster’s disappointment – which had indubitably been Aramis’ objective.

Porthos had seemed torn but, from the look that passed between him and their downhill skier, there was never any doubt that the big man would be staying to support their newest addition.

Besides, they had done the math and there would be time to drive to the secondary location to see Aramis’ race, and then return together for d’Artagnan’s second run that he, by the looks of it, would qualify to.

He comes in as 22th in a flurry of white and the crowd disrupts in cheers.

Athos rarely allows himself outward displays of emotion, but it’s near impossible not to smile at d’Artagnan’s obvious jubilation when he crosses the finish line.

Porthos whoops loudly beside him and when d’Artagnan turns to them – the way he instinctively seeks them out kicking something back alive in Athos that he’d thought long dead – he gives a small nod of approval.

D’Artagnan positively beams.

It takes some time, between receiving congratulatory thumps from fellow skiers and maneuvering between reporters, but eventually d’Artagnan finds his way to them.

Porthos wastes no time before enveloping him in one of his patented bear-hugs.

“Nice run, whelp,” he says, all grins and pride. “Keep this up, and you’ll beat the old-timer here in no time.”

D’Artagnan only grins, seemingly too happy and high on the aftermath of the race to speak.

He turns to Athos, hope shining in those brown orbs despite his best efforts to conceal it.

“We still need to work on the precision of your turns,” Athos says, and watches as d’Artagnan’s smile dims.

Aramis would no doubt have beheaded him.

“However,” he adds, lips quirking when d’Artagnan immediately perks up, “that was some very fine skiing. You did good.”

It’s clear d’Artagnan doesn’t know what to say to that, opening his mouth and then closing it before opening it again, so obviously, ridiculously _pleased,_ and Porthos thumps him on the back.

“Wait ‘til you get on the podium, kid. That’ll tease an actual smile out of ‘im.”

Athos’ raised eyebrow only serves to broaden the grin on Porthos’ face.

His friend is right, of course.

But d’Artagnan doesn’t need to know that.

The youth in question huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, one day, maybe,” he says, glancing at the platform longingly.

“You will,” Athos finds himself saying – because there is absolutely no doubt in his mind that, one day not far from now, they will find d’Artagnan on that podium. The kid is the most talented young slalom skier Athos has seen for some time and, had he been a betting man, he would have had no qualms giving a generous wager to support that claim.

Not that he’d ever tell any of the others that.

D’Artagnan’s eyes go suspiciously wet and, ignoring Porthos’ not-so-subtle grin, Athos clears his throat.

“Now, we should get going if we are to reach Aramis in time. Are you sure you do not wish to stay–”

D’Artagnan vehemently shakes his head.

“Oh no, I’m definitely going. If I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Athos nods, both in acceptance of his decision and in agreement of the argument supporting it.

“Then go to the waxing shed and hand in your skis. Treville will undoubtedly want to have a word with you. Meet us by the car when you’re done.”

Porthos chuckles as d’Artagnan scurries off, the aftermath of a good run visible in his every movement.

“Kid’s got some real talent.”

“He does,” Athos agrees, a strange feeling of pride unfurling in his chest.

“So, whaddaya think: two years and he’ll be in the top ten?”

“One,” Athos says, the certainty of the statement almost surprising him. Almost, but not really.

Porthos hums, looking up at the time being broadcasted on the big screen as they start to walk towards the parking lot.

Athos follows his gaze.

“He’s not up for another hour and a half,” he points out, keeping his voice deliberately casual. “We will be there in time.”

Porthos only hums again.

Athos suppresses a sigh.

He wants to call Porthos on it, to remind him of Aramis’ propensity to almost always land on his feet, no matter how far – or hard – he falls, but since the scare they got in 08, he knows there’s nothing short of seeing their friend cross the finish line in one piece that will calm the other man.

D’Artagnan joins them by the car ten minutes later with a promise from the team’s manager that he will let them know when the starting time for the second run is announced.

Athos makes a mental note to thank the man later; most managers wouldn’t be too pleased about letting their contestants leave the course site, but Treville had long ago learned that, other than locking them inside the waxing shed – something their staff had loudly objected against – there was no real way to keep them separated.  
He might not approve, but he accepts it as the inevitability it is.

They are all very grateful for the fact.

Starting the car, Porthos drives them out of the parking lot.

D’Artagnan is allowed to choose the radio station, now that Aramis isn’t here to “cultivate their severely outdated grasp on the world of modern music”, and some to Athos unknown tune soon fills the car.

Normally, music only serves as a background noise against his three friends’ constant chatter, but now, with one absent and the other two too engrossed in relieved satisfaction and carefully controlled worry respectively, not many words are spoken as they leave the race course behind them and make their way to their fourth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have shamelessly borrowed a line in here from an episode in the series; can anyone point it out? (Another one I borrowed from The Big Bang Theory, but maybe we can just let that one slide? Yeah? Okay. Good.)

Porthos drops them off and drives on to find a parking spot.

Athos and d’Artagnan start zigzagging and pushing themselves through the crowd; the place is cramped, with contestants, crew members, onlookers.

And journalists.

Everywhere.

All waiting for a failure, one tiny miscalculation, to help get their name on the front page.

Bloodthirsty sharks, Athos thinks bitterly, as he grabs d’Artagnan by the arm to prevent him from bumping into the Canadian staff that hurries past them.

The wind has increased since they left the slalom course; alternatively, the change is more due to the increased altitude of the downhill course than the weather. It’s not enough to really be an issue – at least not for a slalom skier – but Athos is more than aware that every change, no matter how seemingly insignificant, can determine the outcome of a race.

Glancing up at the starting board, he notes that Aramis hasn’t had his run yet.

He can deny it to Porthos all he wants – although he knows that the big man would never believe him – but seeing Aramis race is as unsettling as it is entrancing. And it doesn’t only have to do with the incident of 08.

It’s widely known in the racing community that downhill is the most venturous discipline and therefore attracts most daredevils. Aramis is, by no means, an exception to this rule. It’s nothing major, but turns that are just _that_ side of too sharp: leaning just a _bit_ too much forward: the minor increase in speed just before a jump or shallow dip – not to mention the small gestures he somehow manages to squeeze in _during_ a jump that has Athos wondering who will be the first to suffer a heart attack: him or Treville.

Athos has seen him race plenty of times, both in competitions and during practice, and it still amazes him how any sane person can be willing to perform the little stunts Aramis does.

Then he remembers it’s _Aramis_ and suddenly it makes a whole world of sense.

Porthos finds them some time later, standing a few meters off on the left side of the fence.

“He race yet?” he asks, eyes darting to the scoring board even as Athos shakes his head.

“No. He’s up after Busconi, who is currently taking the stand.”

Porthos nods and crosses his arms over his chest, eyes traveling up to the big screen.

They watch in silence as the Italian skier takes off, and it isn’t long until he reaches the standard 130km/h.

D’Artagnan shakes his head in wonder.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love to go fast as much as anyone, but this is insane.”

Porthos chuckles in dry amusement.

“You’ve met Aramis, right?”

D’Artagnan bows his head in mock-seriousness.

“Point taken.”

There’s applause when the Italian skier eventually crosses the finish line, but that’s nothing compared to the noise that follows after Aramis’ name is called.

Athos quirks his lips in a wry smile.

He doesn’t have to turn to know that it’s not only their fellow countrymen cheering on their friend.

Looking up at the big screen, they can all see their fourth at the top of the piste, readying himself. He hasn’t pulled down his goggles yet and when the camera zooms in on his face, those familiar dark orbs, looking down the slope with eerie focus, fill the screen.

Athos doesn’t think he’s imagining it when, as Aramis momentarily breaks out of his daze and gives the camera a wink, there’s at least a few sighs from behind them.

The familiar countdown starts, and then Aramis all but throws himself out of the stand, the energy vibrating off of him clear even from this distance.

It takes him no time at all to reach 130km/h. Soon, he’s at 140 and, even then, he shows no sign of slowing down.

There are two things that everyone in the racing community knows about Aramis: the first is that he likes it fast, even for someone who’s into downhill.

 _How else do I know I’m truly alive?_ he’d asked during one of Athos’ more fervent lectures about the virtues of self-preservation.

The second is that he’ll disregard almost every safety regulation in order to reach that desirable velocity.

Still, Aramis is rarely so reckless as to truly endanger himself. He knows the increased risks of every minor movement, of every little gesture he allows himself. Has had his fair number of falls and broken bones to knock him down to Earth and keep him tethered.

Most of the time, anyway.

So while it might look like nothing but careless exploits based on youthful arrogance, Athos knows that every move is carefully calculated. That their friend – generally – knows what he’s doing.

There’s one, terrible moment, during a flat, where he thinks Aramis might overbalance, and his whole body goes rigid in dreaded anticipation. But he rights himself and continues on as if nothing had – almost – happened.

Athos feels Porthos breathe out next to him, aware that he isn’t the only one who noticed.

“Jesus Christ,” d’Artagnan says, and when Athos turns to look at him his eyes are wide in equal parts astonishment and disbelief. “He really _is_ insane, isn’t he?”

Athos’ lips twitch into a dry smile.

“He claims his mother had him tested,” he drawls, recalling the number of times he himself has asked their friend that very same question.

D’Artagnan only shakes his head in puzzlement.

When Aramis’ first intermediate comes up on the board, Athos cheers with the rest of the audience. It’s hard not to, when watching Aramis perform – because that it, essentially, what he does – and Athos can feel himself starting to relax.

Considering how long he’s been doing this, he really should know that that’s a bad sign, by now.

It happens just before the second intermediate.

To be fair, Athos isn’t sure _what_ exactly happens, but he sees the result clear enough, sees that Aramis is an inch too upright as he takes on the jump when really he should be reclining more forward. It isn’t much. It really isn’t.

But the Devil is in the details.

For one, blessedly naïve moment, Athos thinks that he might actually make it, because it’s Aramis, and he can swear to it that he’s never met anyone with such devilish luck in his entire life.

But Mother Fortuna isn’t smiling today.

There’s a collective gasp as Aramis overbalances, and flies through the air more horizontal than vertical.

For one moment, no one breathes.

Then Aramis hits the ground, hard on his back.

He tumbles down the slope in an uncontrollable mess of limbs, skis, and white powder, the combination of high speed and gravity ushering him on.

All but flies into the safety net, where he stays.

Motionless.

At first, there’s nothing but silence.

Not even the spectators make a sound.

Then the crowd disrupts in shouts and shocked exclamations, but even in the ensuing cacophony, all Athos hears is Porthos’ agonized cry and the absence of his own heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... This is the part where I apologize, isn't it?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we move on with the story, I just need to take a moment to express my gratitude and genuine amazement at all of your support. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe that this story would garner such attention (I mean, as plenty of you have already pointed out, it's just so silly and random an idea that it, by all means, shouldn't work). So my sincerest thanks to all who leave comments, kudos, or bookmark this story, and thank you also to those of you who are silently supportive. I'm humbled to have you all share this experience with me.
> 
> Okay, I'm done. Let's get back to the drama! ;)

It isn’t the first time they’ve seen Aramis fall.

That’s what keeps running through Athos’ mind like a mantra when they push themselves through the crowd and towards the infirmary.

They’ve seen him fall plenty of times and in plenty of different ways: on his back, front, both sides on multiple occasions, right on his butt, one time on his left shoulder with such force they’d feared he’d broken his neck.

Almost always, he rises, brushes himself off, and continues down the slope.

Bruised and sore, yes, maybe a cracked rib or two, but almost always relatively unscathed.

He even gives the crowd a silly little bow, and they all breathe easier after that.

He doesn’t rise, this time.

He lies completely still as the emergency personnel make their way to him.

It’s all on the big screen for them to see, but their bodies obscure Aramis’ and it’s impossible to tell if he’s awake.

Or alive.

The cold that settles in Athos’ bones has nothing to do with the weather.

There is one moment when he thinks he sees Aramis’ hand twitch, and when one of the medics moves, there might have been a glimpse of unruly curls, of dark orbs.

Even though he’s aware it may just as well be a delusion of his treacherous heart, Athos convinces himself that it isn’t.

There are no applauds when the medical staff start sliding down the slope, Aramis secured on a backboard between them and sporting a cervical collar.

Only worried murmurs.

Considering the course is rather long, the three of them should reach the infirmary before Aramis does, but since the site is rather large and they have no real idea of where medical actually _is,_ they end up asking people who give them various vague directions.

By the time they arrive at their intended location, they’ve managed to storm into both the Austrian and the Norwegian encampments, as well as a waxing shed.

Opening the door - and blatantly ignoring the protests from the man standing in front of it, - they immediately spot their fourth.

He’s lying on the backboard, collar still in place, and although the sight is disconcerting – they should have at least loosened the straps tying him to the gurney, by now – brown eyes look over at them from their reclined position, and Athos’ heart _finally_ starts beating again.

“I see your flair for the dramatic is still intact,” he drawls around the relief as Porthos not so much walks but _runs_ up to Aramis’ side.

“Why of course,” Aramis replies with a weak smirk, words slurring slightly. “Drama makes everything s’much more interesting.”

“I for one could do with a little less,” d’Artagnan mutters, though he smiles at seeing their friend awake and talking.

“You and your foolishness will be the death of me, one day,” Porthos grumbles. “This is wha’ happens when we let you off on your own, y’know.”

Chiding aside though, his touch is inhumanly gentle as he cards his fingers through Aramis’ hair in slow, soothing motions.

“Are you alright?”

The downhiller fixes unfocused eyes on him, face lined in discomfort, the skin around his eyes strained.

“I believe I’ll live,” he says, lips twitching faintly. But the smile is a frail, tentative thing, and the response is far from as reassuring as it should be.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Their friend gives a weary sigh at Athos’ question.

“No, not really. ’S all pretty blurry fr’m after I arrived at the course. But…” He gives a weak twist of his left hand to encompass his body. “--it seems straightforward enough. The result.”

Bleary eyes skid over to Athos, locking onto him briefly, before eventually coming to rest on d’Artagnan. Aramis frowns, as if only now realizing that the youth is there.

“What’re you doing here?”

D’Artagnan looks mildly taken aback, and a little hurt, by the question. He starts to flounder for a response but Aramis quickly interrupts him.

“I meant, don’ you have a second run t’get ready for?”

D’Artagnan blinks at him, before he turns to Athos with a questioning look.

Aramis chuckles softly.

It sounds strained. Hollow in a way that immediately sets Athos on edge.

“Oh I knew you’d go through t’ second,” Aramis says breezily, in a way that is probably meant to come across as genuine. “How could you not, b’ing part ‘v such an amazing ‘lite team?”

He winks and d’Artagnan rolls his eyes.

“Treville called on our way here; he came through as 26th,” Athos informs him. A short pause, and then he adds, “He did really well.”

Aramis smiles and looks back at their youngest.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the re-runs.”

Athos studies their injured friend closely, looks past the carefully constructed, carefree mask. Takes note of the cracks in it.

He knows without looking that Porthos sees them, too.

“So, what’s the verdict this time, then?” he asks, keeps his voice casual despite his mounting unease.

Aramis’ eyes flit over to him – or somewhere slightly off to his right, – expression deceptively neutral.

Athos doesn’t buy it one bit.

Their friend shrugs. Or rather, tries to; considering his pegged down position, it proves somewhat difficult.

“Concussion, sprained wrist, banged m’right knee up pretty bad ‘pparently…”

Athos frowns, but Aramis continues.

“Maybe some cracked ribs. Hospital… X-rays… or an MRI. Both? Don’ remember.”

Porthos looks down the length of Aramis’ body.

“So, if the only real issue’s your knee, how come they ‘aven’t released you from your bonds yet?”

Aramis averts his eyes.

Chews on his lip.

And says nothing.

Porthos throws Athos a worried look.

“Aramis,” Athos says, fighting the dread that is trying to take control over his vocal chords. “What else?”

When there is still no response, Porthos strokes his thumb over the pain lines on Aramis’ forehead and their friend closes his eyes with a slightly uneven breath.

“’S alright, ’Mis,” Porthos murmurs. “You can tell us.”

A few moments of uneasy silence pass before Aramis blinks his eyes open, firmly fixes them on the roof, and Athos’ feeling of foreboding increases tenfold for reasons he can’t identify.

Their friend takes a steadying breath.

“It’s alright,” he says, obviously aiming to reassure although his voice is devoid of anything other than a failed attempt at deliberate indifference. “It really-- It’s not-- I’m--”

“Aramis.”

He breaks off.

Presses his lips together.

Swallows.

Exhales shakily.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so before y'all go and get any funny ideas, can I just point out that you need me alive in order to get the rest of the story? Alright? Alright.
> 
> (Also: Aren't you happy I made a last minute decision to cut this scene here? No? No one?)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too long a chapter this time, I'm afraid. But then again, this was never meant to be its own chapter, initially.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support!

For a moment, the whole world goes quiet.

Quiet, except for the earsplitting horror flooding the entire cabin.

Aramis gives a broken laugh.

“I can’t feel’em at all.”

The words are barely more than a whisper, and still they seem to echo in the space around them.

Athos stares at him, lungs screaming for air but unable to draw breath, but instead of apprehensive browns, all he sees is terrified blues.

Terrified blues, twisted limbs on a brown and green forest floor, and guilt, heavy in his throat.

_Olivier…_

_Olivier, I can’t feel anything…_

Porthos drags a hand down his face and curses.

“Shit, Aramis…”

“Neither of them?” d’Artagnan asks, and promptly winces at the words and the dark look Porthos throws his way.

Aramis exhales slowly through his nose, lips pressed tightly together, and doesn’t answer, carefully not meeting any of their gazes.

Porthos sighs, cards his fingers through Aramis’ hair.

“There really is no ‘halfway’ with you, is there?” he says, lips twisting sadly. “Always gotta be such a fuckin’ drama queen.”

“I know,” Aramis murmurs, voice beyond weary. He swallows. “I know. God, I know, I’m sorry. Serves me right, though, doesn’t it? So fucking stupid, Christ, I’m sorry…”

“Hey,” Porthos chides, voice a gentle rumble. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, you ninny, so stop it.”

_I’m sorry! Olivier, **please** , I can’t feel-- I’m **sorry…**_

_Help me!_

_Olivier…_

“Athos.”

Athos blinks himself back to the present, memories he’d much rather forget like a lurid horror movie on his retina, and meets Porthos’ _you-better-start-being-useful-or-I’ll-break-your-entire-fucking-face_ -look.

He can feel d’Artagnan hovering anxiously at his side, and clears his throat.

“We don’t know the extent of the damage yet,” he says, and inwardly congratulates himself on how steady he sounds. “Before a doctor has had the opportunity to examine you, we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

It’s empty words, really, but it still manages to ease some of the tension in the room.

“Athos’s right,” Porthos agrees with conviction. “You’re the luckiest bastard I know. You’ll be fine.”

He gives Aramis’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ll get through this together, yeah?”

When the downhiller doesn’t respond, Porthos leans in, willing their friend to meet his gaze.

“Hey, look at me. You’ll. Be. _Fine_ ,” he repeats, as if mere words could make it so. “You’re too damn stubborn not to be. We’ll deal with whatever comes, _together_ , you hear me?”

Aramis looks up through bleary eyes and gives a tremulous smile.

When the paramedics arrive some time later to load their injured friend onto the ambulance, Athos isn’t the least bit surprised at the small argument that ensues.

“I’m comin’ with you.”

“Porthos--”

“You can turn them doe eyes on someone else, I’m comin’,” Porthos says, immovable. “I’m not dumping your sorry ass onto some poor, unexpectant nurse. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

Aramis heaves a dramatic sigh, but the gratitude in his eyes is the first real emotion aside from fear they’ve seen since they entered the infirmary.

Still, he’s a stubborn idiot who never knows when to quit.

“You really should watch d’Artagnan--” he tries but is, again, interrupted.

“He really should _not_ ,” the youngster in question disagrees, voice firm. “It’s just a race, Aramis. And we both know he’d only be worrying anyway.”

He throws a tentative look Porthos’ way but the big man accepts it for the truth it is, his hand a steady weight on Aramis’ shoulder when the paramedics shift their friend onto their own stretcher.

Aramis, for his part, tuts his displeasure, even as he squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden change of altitude.

“’Just a race,’ he says. What happen'd to the young Gascon who wan’ed nothing more than t’make the team an’ get to the podium?”

The words are an obvious attempt at deflection but d’Artagnan doesn’t budge, instead evenly meeting his gaze.

“He _did_ make the team, and realized that there are more important things than competing.”

Porthos’ eyes shine with silent approval.

And it’s quite possible Athos has never been more proud of his young protégé.

He steps up to the gurney before the EMTs have a chance to leave and lays a hand on Aramis’ arm, doesn’t say anything but hopes that his eyes convey what mere words cannot.

The downhiller offers a tentative smirk, understanding and gratitude visible alongside the apprehension.

The paramedics carry him off soon after.

Porthos turns on his way out after them, all of the emotions he’d taken care to hide from their friend now coming to the forefront with the force of an avalanche.

Athos steadily meets his gaze.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he promises, as if there was ever any doubt, and his friend nods.

Giving d’Artagnan an encouraging smile, the big man says, “Give’em your best, yeah?”

D’Artagnan cocks an eyebrow.

“What else is there?”

He drops it as soon as Porthos disappears out of sight, and his voice is low and hesitant when he speaks.

“He’ll be alright… right?”

_But he’ll recover, won’t he? It’s only temporary, isn’t it?_

_What on Earth were you thinking, letting him up there!_

_Olivier?_

Athos doesn’t answer, only turns and starts walking out of the cabin.

“Come on. You need to get back to the course, and I need to call Treville.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Austrian hospitals have very poor security - but well-meaning staff.

D’Artagnan all but shoos him away as soon as he’s finished his second run. Unsurprisingly, he raced with the same boldness and youthful exuberance as he always did, but there had been a new kind of intensity to it, as compared to his first run: almost hurried. As if he had somewhere else to be.

Athos understands the feeling all too well.

But when it’s over, he still hesitates. He should stay, for little a while, at least: properly congratulate the kid on another great race, give him some useful advice on how to handle the herd of reporters standing by the edge of the fence--

Then d’Artagnan actually shoves him.

“ _Go,_ ” he says, fond annoyance clearly underlining that one word – and its accompanying eye roll. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”

And Athos, because he’s a bad person, relents.

Looking out over the crowd, he catches Treville’s eye and the manager inclines his head in silent assurance.

No matter how capable Athos knows d’Artagnan to be, he should still have someone backing him up during his first big interview.

The reporters might not have the teeth of actual sharks – and they are not all bad; Athos could even be persuaded to go so far as to admit that some of them are really quite tolerable – but the way they use those annoying little recorders can be just as lethal.

He strides past them and gets into one of the team cars.

Considering how far away his mind is, trapped somewhere between the guilt of the past and the uncertainty of the present, it’s a minor miracle that he arrives at the hospital in one piece.

A young woman looks up at him from behind the front desk when he enters: eyes a bright blue, dark hair collected in a neat ponytail, and a warm smile on her lips.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m looking for someone who was brought in by ambulance from Patscherkofel a few hours ago. René d’Herblay?”

Her smile dims and she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?”

Athos somehow finds it in himself to smirk.

“I assure you I’m not,” he promises. “Could you confirm that he’s here? He didn’t come in alone.”

She studies him for a moment more before nodding, seemingly satisfied that he’s telling the truth. Looking down at her screen, her fingers tap briefly on the keyboard.

“He’s here,” she confirms. “In ICU. He came in three hours ago.”

She looks up, and her expression turns apologetic.

“I can’t let you see him, though. Family are the only ones allowed to--”

“He’s my brother,” Athos interrupts, without any real conscious thought.

He long ago stopped questioning how right it feels, saying it.

She pauses, some emotion crossing her face that Athos can’t quite read, before it finally lands in amusement. 

Glancing around, she leans over the desk none too discreetly and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You know, that’s exactly what the other one said.”

When Athos starts to flounder for an adequate explanation, because _of course_ that’s what Porthos would have said, she shakes her head dismissively and winks at him.

“Don’t worry. I basically grew up in this place and one soon learns to separate the pretenders from the genuine ones. I can tell you’re a good person--”

Athos fights hard not to snort at _that._

“--and I can see that you’re worried about your, uhm, _brother,_ so I’ll let you through. He’s in room 202.”

She winks at him again.

Athos could kiss her.

He doesn’t, obviously.

Because he’s not Aramis.

But the hospital is about to receive a very generous donation from an anonymous benefactor.

“Oh, and before I forget…”

She disappears out of sight, shuffling with something under the counter before reappearing, a familiar rosary dangling from her hand.

“One of the paramedics handed it in when they arrived. I don’t suppose it belongs to your friend? The clasp is a bit damaged, I’m afraid…”

Athos reaches out and takes it carefully, fingers trailing over the well-worn beads.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, but she only waves him off.

“No need to thank me,” she says with a smile. “I hope he’s okay.”

Athos gives her a tight nod, thanks her again, and then starts walking in the direction of the ICU.

He’s almost at the end of the corridor when she calls.

“Just so I know, should I be expecting any more _brothers_ to appear, or are there only three of you?”

Athos’ smile is much more genuine, this time.

“There might be another one,” he admits, after a moment of contemplation. He doubts d’Artagnan would play the brother-card, but it feels wrong, somehow, not to include him anyway.

Whatever calming effect had radiated off of the nurse dissipates the further away he gets, and it isn’t long before those icy claws from the past start squeezing around his throat again.

It’s too similar.

Far too similar.

He knows this is not the same, knows that this is, in no way, his fault: that there is no reason for him to blame himself, that Aramis is a grown man capable – well, he uses the term loosely – to make his own decisions, who is responsible for his own mistakes; he is not a naïve child who listens to his big brother’s distorted conceptions of reality, who believes and even expects Athos to protect him from every hurt and bruise--

Athos drags a hand down his face and inhales, releasing the breath with forcible calm.

 _It is **not** the same,_ he reminds himself sternly, annoyed, and the whispers from the past quieten…

…Only to come back roaring when he rounds the corner and spots Porthos.

Standing with his back against the wall, arms crossed and head bent low, right foot tapping on the floor, Porthos is all but radiating anxiety  
.  
Athos almost stumbles in his way to reach him.

Porthos looks up as he approaches, the relieved smile morphing into a frown at whatever expression is on Athos’ face.

“Where is he?” Athos asks, and when that first question escapes, it’s like the release of a floodgate. “What are you doing out here? Is he alright? What did the doctors say? Does he need surgery? Will he--” 

Porthos’ hands fly up like shields between them.

“Athos, mate, chill! Docs kicked me out half an hour ago. They’ve taken him to get an MRI.”

Athos blinks at him for a moment, tries to remember how to reestablish contact between his brain and his mouth.

“Oh.”

He fails.

Spectacularly.

Porthos studies him closely.

“Y’know, I was kinda hopin’ you’d be the levelheaded one in this because, honestly man, I’m freakin’ out here.”

Athos takes a deep breath, forces his heart to slow its rapid beating against his ribcage.

“Right,” he eventually manages. “Apologies.”

Porthos shakes his head.

“No need for that. I know this can’t be easy for you. Bein’ here.”

Athos carefully doesn’t meet his friend’s gaze. He knows it will contain nothing but gentleness and compassion, but he really doesn’t want to talk about it.

Porthos, thankfully, drops it.

“They didn’t seem too concerned about his wrist,” he informs, effectively changing the subject and eyes going down the corridor where Athos assumes there’s somewhere a door labelled 202. “Probably just a sprain, like he said. It’ll heal on its own if he can just avoid usin’ it for a few weeks. He’s got a badass concussion but, considering the fall, the Docs seemed pretty impressed he escaped without cracking his head open. His knee…”

Porthos’ mouth twists unhappily.

“They hardly had to touch it to know it’s pretty busted. Tore the ligaments to shit, or that’s what they’re guessin’, anyway. They think he’ll recover, but he needs to stay on crutches for a couple of months, and then there’s physio…”

“Which he will be absolutely thrilled about,” Athos says sarcastically, feeling a little more in control of himself, and Porthos huffs a tired laugh.

“Yeah.”

Swallowing, Athos asks the question that’s been lying like a suffocating blanket over them since Aramis’ confession in the infirmary.

“Spinal injuries?”

Porthos gives a weary sigh and shakes his head.

“They don’ know yet.”

Right.

MRI.

They won’t know anything for sure until after the MRI.

Porthos chews on his lip.

Shifts on his feet.

Athos waits.

“It isn’t the first time he’s been injured,” Porthos eventually says. “Or the first time we’ve seen ‘im fall. Not that I think I’ll ever get used to it, but… he always jokes about it, y’know? ‘Bout how he’ll get more media coverage an’ how all the women will dote on ‘im even more…”

He trails off, eyes two dark pools of anxiety.

“It’s not the first time,” he repeats, voice soft. “But, Athos, I’ve never seen him this _scared_ before.”

Athos exhales slowly through his nose.

“Even Aramis isn’t fool enough not to fear paralysis,” he says, and Porthos tenses at the word that they have both avoided uttering up until now.

Reaching out, Athos squeezes his friend’s arm until the larger man looks at him.

He gives a small smirk.

“But it is as you said earlier: he is not alone in this. We will stay with him, and endure months of him constantly complaining of boredom, ensuring us that he’s fit enough to handle things that we both know he is not. We will see him through this.”

Porthos is still tense, worry in his body and eyes like something tangible, but his smile is genuine, albeit small.

“All for one, ‘s that it?”

“Always, my friend. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt Athos and Porthos needed to vent their worries. Next chapter will provide us with answers, rest assured. On another note, we're closing in on the finish line, people!
> 
> Patscherkofel is a well-known mountain in Austria which hosted some disciplines of the Winter Olympics in -64 and -76, including downhill.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, upon posting the previous chapter (i.e. chapter 5) it didn't register on the site as a story update and, therefore, never appeared on the front page. So if there are those of you who're questioning how you could've missed it, it was all due to some technical error that has, hopefully, been resolved by now.
> 
> On another note, I'm practically cross-eyed upon posting this so if you find any inaccuracies, I beg of you to let me know.

The doors open a few minutes later to reveal a handful of nurses and a doctor pushing a gurney containing a still strapped-down Aramis.

They both push themselves from the wall and immediately make their way over.

The doctor eyes them inquiringly when they approach, but Athos speaks before he can ask.

“We’re his brothers.”

The man looks at them curiously, but is apparently too polite to point out their obvious differences of appearance, and nods, motioning for them to follow.

Porthos throws him an amused look, but Athos only shrugs. 

He’s hardly one to judge.

“P’thos?” Aramis mumbles from where he lies, eyes dimmed and at half-mast, looking pale and completely drained.

Porthos quickly closes the gap between them.

“Right here, mate,” he reassures, one hand guiding the stretcher and the other squeezing Aramis’ shoulder. “Said you wouldn’t get rid of me, didn’t I? Athos’s here too.”

“Mmm…” is the incoherent response. “Athos?”

Athos steps up next to Porthos, a hand on their friend’s arm.

“I’m here,” he says quietly, and Aramis closes his eyes with a sigh.

They roll him into a room; it’s not large, but at least it’s a private one.

It would seem being a world-known skier has its perks.

“’S alright,” Porthos murmurs softly, hand in Aramis’ hair and completely ignoring the nurses who mill about, connecting their brother to various machines. “We’re here an’ we ain’t leavin’.”

“Definitely not,” Athos agrees, as he moves to stand on Aramis’ other side, gripping his uninjured hand tightly.

Aramis blinks up at them, eyes bleary and pained, but grateful.

Someone clears their throat and Athos and Porthos simultaneously turn to look at the doctor.

“Maybe we should take this outside,” the man suggests, with a quick glance Aramis’ direction. “Give your brother some rest--”

“No,” Aramis says, and it’s the most determined Athos has heard him since the infirmary. “Whatever you have to say I… I wan’ t’ hear it.”

Sometimes, Athos forgets just how brave his normally jovial friend is.

The fact that said friend currently has a death grip on his hand in a silent plea for them not to leave is a moot point at best.

The doctor nods his acquiescence.

“Alright, then. Well, it appears that you have bruised your ribs but, luckily, no fractures or broken bones were visible on the MRI. Your right wrist is sprained but no ligaments are torn, so it should heal on its own within a few weeks…”

“What of his back?” Athos interrupts.

Despite the fear he knows they all have for the answer, neither of them will really comprehend anything the doctor says before knowing the severity of that particular injury.

The doctor seems to understand this as well.

“Of course. The good news is that we found nothing to indicate that your paraplegia would be the result of a spinal or neck injury--”

“Thank God,” Porthos mutters, his hand flexing convulsively in Aramis’ hair.

“--there is, however, considerable swelling, most likely from the trauma you suffered in the fall. You are probably experiencing a form of isolated nerve dysfunction, or IND, called femoral nerve dysfunction. It occurs when the femoral nerve is damaged due to trauma in the femur area. That might explain the loss of sensation in your legs.”

“It’s not--” Athos clears his throat, forces the words out. “You are certain it isn’t caused by his head injury?”

The only thing worse than Aramis being paralyzed, is him suffering any kind of brain damage.

Just the thought makes Athos feel sick.

The doctor, though, shakes his head.

“As far as the MRI shows, it’s unlikely the confusion and slurred speech is caused by anything other than your typical MTBI. But he’ll stay under close observation for the next few hours, just to make sure.”

“This femoral -whatever, is it… bad?”

The doctor gives a noncommittal shrug at Porthos’ question.

“It all depends on the individual case, really, and if the incident caused any damage to the femoral artery. But no, barring any such complications, the condition in itself isn’t life-threatening.”

“Will…” Aramis pauses, seems to struggle for a moment with the wording. He’d seemed content to let the others do the talking – Athos isn’t sure how much he really comprehends of what is being said – but now he speaks up for the first time.

Eyes, huge and dark and filled with so much carefully controlled hope that something in Athos threatens to crumble, never once leave the doctor as he forces the question out.

“Will I walk again?”

Of course, that’s the only question that really matters.

“I’m afraid there are no straight answers to that,” the man replies gently, and Athos can feel Aramis deflate. “Like I said, it greatly differs between cases, and depends on the effects of the physiotherapy. However, since you don’t appear to have suffered any damage to your spine, and since the MRI suggested no internal bleeding or damage to your femoral artery, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to walk again.”

The relief filling the room is so tangible Athos thinks he could suffocate on it.

All things considered, there are probably worse ways to go.

Then it hits him.

“What about his knee?” he asks, and by the straightening of Porthos’ neck and the small ‘oh’ sound coming from Aramis, he wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten about that.

“We checked it at the same time as we scanned your back,” the doctor says. His mouth twists into a small grimace. “It showed that you most likely tore through the posterior cruciate ligament.”

Aramis smirks wistfully.

“Suddenly glad I can’t feel ‘nything below m’waist.”

The doctor looks at him with an encouraging smile.

“It requires surgery to reattach the ligament,” he admits. “But it’s not a complicated procedure. And since you don’t appear to have damaged your back in that fall, I’d say you are a pretty lucky young man.”

Aramis nods – as much as he’s able – and squeezes Athos’ hand.

“So I’ve been told.”

“You will have to stay strapped down for the time being, though. Like I said, there doesn’t _appear_ to be any damage to your spine, but we will take another MRI in the morning, just to make certain there are no unpleasant surprises. Someone will drop by to prepare you for surgery in a while, but if you need anything you just call for us.”

“Thank you,” Athos says, when it becomes clear that Aramis is a bit too overwhelmed to speak – whether by the revived hope of regaining use of his legs again, or by the prospect that he’ll have to remain immobile for several more hours, Athos isn’t sure. “We appreciate your help, Doctor…?”

“Baeder,” the man supplies with a smirk. “Don’t hesitate to call if you have any further questions. I’ll be here for the remainder of the day.”

He looks at them all in turn and after that exits the room.

“My God,” Athos breathes out when he’s gone, feeling all of ten years older, as Porthos burrows his head in the bed’s linen and chokes out, “Shit. Fucking _shit._ ”

“Yes. My thoughts exactly,” Aramis says, sounding a little dazed.

“Luckiest fucking bastard I know,” Porthos laughs brokenly, the sound muffled against Aramis’ side.

And for the second time since he put foot in the hospital, Athos remembers something he should have thought of much earlier.

Putting his free hand in his pocket, he digs out the rosary.

“A nurse at the front desk gave me this on my way in,” he says. “She assumed you would want it back.”

“How thoughtful,” Aramis mumbles, bright eyes glued to the item with a reverence Athos will never truly understand.

He untangles his hand from Aramis’ and replaces it with the beads, and Aramis breathes out a long sigh of relief and closes his eyes.

“Remin’me t’ thank her later,” he says softly.

There’s a small smile on his lips, and Athos realizes it doesn’t matter that he can’t understand it, as long as it gives Aramis some sort of comfort.

Maybe that’s what makes this time different.

“Athos.”

He blinks, and meets Aramis’ dark eyes, gaze eerily sharp and far more aware than it was just a moment ago.

“’M not Thomas,” he says, and something raw and ugly thrashes against the confines of Athos’ heart.

He forces himself not to break eye contact when he leans forward and closes his hand around Aramis’, giving it a brief squeeze.

“I know.”

He is grateful, and equal parts exasperated by his friends’ concern, but this isn’t about him.

He clears his throat and abruptly changes the subject.

“How are you feeling?”

Aramis studies him for a beat longer, before he sighs and closes his eyes again.

“As ‘right as can be, consid’rin’.”

His voice is quiet, probably in deference to the headache Athos can see plainly in the frown adorning his forehead, and he adjusts his own voice thereafter.

“Are you in any pain?”

Aramis gives a tired shrug.

“Head’s stuffed,” he murmurs. “Littl’ sore. M’hand feels ‘bout two times its usual size. The rest…” He makes a small, vague gesture toward the lower parts of his body.

“’S out of my reach.”

“For now,” Porthos reminds him, voice a low, steady timbre, and Aramis nods minutely.

Silence descends, all of them trying to digest the last few hours.

He has no idea how much time has passed when the hitch of a breath eventually brings Athos back from his own contemplations. He instinctively glances at the bed, and he _aches._

His face is still too pale, and the frown is ever-present, but what bothers him is the tears rolling down from underneath Aramis’ closed eyelids.

Porthos wordlessly reaches out and wipes them away, but they’re soon replaced by new ones.

“Aramis?” he asks softly, fingers massaging their friend’s scalp with a gentleness that should be impossible for a man his size.

Aramis gives a thick laugh.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m alright. Fuck. I’m alright, I'm sorry, I’m really-- I just-- fucking _Christ._ ”

He laughs again, a little more on the hysterics this time, and neither Athos nor Porthos say anything as they envelop their friend, the shock of the day finally catching up to him.

“You’re alright,” Athos mumbles, arms tightening reflexively as Aramis gasps his next breath out between them.

He swallows, jaw clenching.

“We’ve got you. We’ve got you, shh, you’re alright…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left, you guys! Are you still with me?
> 
> And MTBI is basically the fancy pancy word for "concussion." It stands for "Mild Traumatic Brain Injury"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive THANK YOU to everyone who gave this little piece of randomness a chance, and then stayed with it to the end. I hope you have enjoyed the ride as much as I have. You guys are amazing.

The next day, the swelling in Aramis’ back has reduced enough for the doctors to confirm that he doesn’t suffer any damage to his spine.

It’s like resurfacing from a nightmare, taking the first full breath in hours, and they all pretend not to notice the tears of relief on Aramis’ cheeks when he is finally freed from the board.

He still can’t feel his legs though, which they all find worrisome, but Doctor Baeder assures them that the nerves just need time to regenerate and that he will regain sensation in time. They just need to be patient, and then the rest will come easily enough.

Porthos snorts and Athos nearly chokes on his coffee.

Nothing with “Aramis” and “patience” in the same sentence, unless used with a negation, makes for an easy _anything._

The surgery went without any complications, though, and the downhiller is released from the hospital three days later, with strict orders of bedrest.

Treville returned to France with the rest of the team as soon as it became clear that Aramis had, once again, managed to beat the odds, knowing that Athos and Porthos won’t let the man out of their sight.

Athos has a plan to ensure that.

The manager inquires whether they should leave one of the team physicians but Athos declines, knowing that the idea of having a doctor constantly hovering nearby would only make their ailing brother uncomfortable.

D’Artagnan is clearly torn about his place in all of this, but then Aramis makes the decision for him.

“You should go,” he says, firmly waving away the expected objections. “Two jailers are more than enough, and I daresay there’s someone at home who will be much more appreciative of your affections.”

It’s clear that their youngest misses his fiancée and, although he still seems somewhat hesitant, he eventually deflates and joins Treville on the plane back to Paris.

Getting Aramis settled in the car is an awkward and painful experience that they’d all prefer to forget – even with his system buzzing with pain medication, it’s clear that every movement causes some amount of discomfort. They have equipped him with his skiing goggles to help dim the glare of the sun, and Porthos bundles him up with so many blankets before they leave the hospital that Aramis is barely visible beneath it all.

“It’s only a couple of meters, Porthos,” the downhiller had tried to reason.

“An’ if anyone can catch pneumonia during that time, it’d be you. Leave’em or you can drive yourself out of this bloody hospital,” was the grumbled response, and Aramis had sighed but given in.

Even he knows not to challenge Porthos when he’s in mother mode.

By the time they have him all propped up and half-lying in the backseat, Aramis is already half-asleep, exhausted by even that small amount of activity.

When he jerks himself awake for the fifth or sixth time in less than five minutes, wincing in the process, Athos decides that enough is enough.

“Rest, Aramis,” he says quietly, though his tone brooks no argument. “We will wake you when we’re there.”

It looks as though he’s about to argue – being Aramis, they expect no less – but then he appears to think better of it and, giving a tired nod, he leans back against the cushioned door with a sigh.

He’s asleep in seconds.

Porthos cranes his neck to look at him from the passenger seat, a fond smile curving his lips, and Athos hazards a glance at the big man.

He looks tired, circles under his eyes and lines on his face that Athos can swear to weren’t there a few days ago. It’s hardly surprising; they have barely left Aramis’ side during the time he’s spent in the hospital, sleeping in the waiting room or – when kicked out of there by some well-meaning nurse – in the car.

This solution will be good for all of them, he thinks, as the queue in front of them start moving. Give them all some time to regain their feet.

They drive on in silence, not wanting to disturb their sleeping brother – and both too weary to talk, anyway.

[...]

It’s close to two hours before the calm is breached by a voice, gravelly with sleep.

“Where are we going?”

Athos gives a small smirk, but doesn’t take his eyes off of the road.

“Good morning,” he says casually, ignoring the question. “I trust you had a pleasant nap?”

“Yes quite, thank you. This isn’t the road to the airport,” Aramis says, sleepiness now giving way to suspicion.

Athos hums.

“I’m glad to see that your observational skills are still intact.”

He’s already discussed his plan with Porthos, and the big man now “casually” puts his elbow against the window and lifts a hand to cover his smile.

Athos doesn’t have to check the rearview mirror to see their friend’s eye roll.

“You two are truly the epitome of discretion. But alright, I’ll play along. If we are not going to the airport, then where?”

“We’re taking some vacation time,” Athos replies absently, scanning their surroundings. 

‘Turn left at the tree that looks like a snowman,’ Fabian had said. ‘You’ll pass a gas station, or, more like a giant pile of snow hiding a gas station. Take left when the road splits and then it isn’t too far.’

First of all, they’re in the Alps: There’s snow fucking everywhere.

And second, how the hell does a tree even _look_ like a snowman?

“Marvelous as that sounds, it doesn’t answer my question,” Aramis says dryly, but Athos can hear that he’s intrigued.

He has the excitement level of a child, he thinks fondly.

“No,” he replies out loud, voice even. “It doesn’t.”

Aramis gives a long-suffering, but slightly amused sigh and Porthos’ shoulders shake in badly suppressed laughter.

Athos smirks.

They drive on in silence.

Not that it lasts for long.

“Do either of you think that tree looks like a snowman?”

[...]

“Athos… Tell me you didn’t.”

The engine is off, has been for quite some time, but none of them make a move to get out of the car. Dubious directions aside – they had all agreed that maybe, if one were drunk, or high, that tree could have had the semblance of a snowman, and that’s a huge _maybe_ – they had finally arrived.

The location is perfect: a little secluded but not too far from civilization: snow-covered mountains visible in the background and trees spreading out around them, no other lifeform in sight – except for the natural fauna.

And in front of them, a few meters of flat, untouched land, and a two-story wooden cottage.

Yes.

Perfect indeed.

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” Athos replies drolly around a self-satisfactory smirk.

“But it… it’s a _house,_ ” Aramis splutters, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets and through his goggles as he gapes at the sight.

Porthos, for his part, is openly grinning.

“I like it.”

Athos hums in agreement.

“I think it will suit our needs. Fabien informed me that it’s ours for as long as we need it.”

Aramis tears his gaze from the wooden construction to stare at them in the rearview mirror, something akin to amazement in his eyes.

“You’re serious about this.”

It’s not a question, but Athos inclines his head nonetheless.

Aramis goes back to staring at the cottage.

“I’m-- I… I don’t know what to say…”

“’S a first time for everythin’,” Porthos teases, and Aramis whacks him on the back of the head good-naturedly.

He soon turns serious though.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, eyes soft and voicing everything that he can’t speak.

Silence descends for a while, all of them taking in their surroundings, before Porthos eventually breaks it.

“So, whaddaya say we get a move on, then?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before opening the door and stepping out.

Athos follows his example, and opens the boot to retrieve the wheelchair they borrowed from the hospital. They try to be as gentle as possible when they carry their injured brother from the backseat, but he still tenses at the movement, breath hitching at the sudden onslaught of light outside of the car’s toned windows.

When they finally have him settled, Aramis’ eyes are closed, his breathing harsh and controllably slow.

Athos and Porthos wait in silence for him to regain his composure.

After a few moments, Aramis blinks his eyes open, the normally so clear browns now dulled with pain and the result of many a sleepless nights.

“I’m alright,” he assures, before either of them can pose the question.

Porthos crouches down in front of him and places a hand on Aramis’ arm. Squeezing, he says, “You don’t have t’be, y’know.”

Aramis blinks at him, before giving a sheepish smile and averting his gaze.

“But you will be,” Athos says, voice resolute. A promise.

They will make sure of that.

Aramis looks at them both, fond and so very grateful, before his eyes roam over their surroundings anew.

His smile is a frail, tremulous, but genuine thing.

“Yes,” he agrees softly. “Yes, I think I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of it, folks!..... or is it? Did you really think I would leave off without an epilogue? Shame on you...


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end, people! I want to thank all of you for joining me on this (really rather ridiculous) ride. I'm blown away by the response this story has received, and I'm beyond thrilled that you've enjoyed it.
> 
> Until next time!

The course is covered in freshly fallen snow, the sun peeking out from between mountain tops, and the thermostat showing a temperature of just over 20 F. There’s a slight breeze in the air: refreshing, not enough to disturb them.

It’s a lot like that day, almost eight months ago.

Aramis looks down the piste appraisingly.

“So, this is it,” he says. His tone is flippant, but the trepidation is clear in his eyes.

Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “We’ve got all day, ‘Mis. Take your time.”

Aramis nods absently, eyes never leaving the slope.

For a moment, they just stand there in silence, breathing.

It’s the downhiller who eventually breaks it.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, voice layered in equal amounts annoyance and self-deprecation. “I have done this for years. It isn’t the first time I’ve been injured. This is no different.”

“It is,” Athos disagrees calmly.

His composed exterior aside though, he is silently soaring with pride: a steady, pulsating fire originating from somewhere within his very core. It’s hard to fully comprehend, that they are all standing here.

Aramis sighs, the sound more than a little frustrated.

“It shouldn’t be.”

Athos clears his throat delicately, because even though what Porthos says is true, that they are in no rush, he recognizes that the longer they drag this out, the harder it will be.

“Of course, we could always go with you--,” he says, and that, at least, gets a reaction.

Aramis swivels his head around and stares at him, wide-eyed.

“Are you _insane?_ You’d probably end up in a mountain crack somewhere with your necks broken. Absolutely not!”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Athos drawls, although he’s fighting the urge to smirk.

“Can’t be that hard,” Porthos says casually, quickly catching on. He looks down the slope as if seriously considering it. “’S all just speed. No technique.”

Aramis jerks back, affronted.

“ _Just_ speed?” he splutters. “No _technique?_ Do you have any idea how long I had to train indoors before taking on a piste this size – _without_ the immediate risk of killing myself?”

“Sure… But that doesn’t prove anythin’.”

Aramis snorts.

“And how, pray tell, do you figure that?”

“’Cause that was _you._ ” Porthos grins shamelessly, dimples showing. “I’m sure I’d be a natural.”

Aramis scoffs, but there’s amusement in his eyes as he gives Porthos a friendly shove.

“Sometimes, I wonder why I put up with you.”

Porthos shrugs, still grinning. “Must be ‘cause of my charmin’ personality.”

“Now _that_ I sincerely doubt.”

Aramis looks down the piste again, chews on his lip.

Something in his eyes harden.

“You should go,” he eventually says. “I’ll meet you at the end of the slope.”

Athos and Porthos exchange a look.

“Are you sure?” Athos asks, the previous levity forgotten. Despite his conviction that there is little to gain from dragging out the process, he would rather stay put and get frostbite than leave Aramis before he is ready.

But the downhiller nods in determination. “I’m sure.” He draws a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I need to do this on my own.”

“I would ask you to refrain from any of your usual theatrics,” Athos says, one eyebrow raised although his voice lacks any of its usual sarcasm, “but I assume that won’t be necessary?”

Aramis gives a rueful smirk.

“No. No need to worry on that account.”

Athos’ lips twitch in sympathy – despite the grievance it frequently causes him, an Aramis with no mischievous intent will never be considered normal, and, therefore, not in any way desirable – and gives Aramis’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before he turns and starts moving towards the lift without another word.

Porthos joins him soon after, expression grim and lips pressed into a thin line, eyes loud in their disquiet.

Once down, they waste no time getting to the end of the piste.

Athos exhales deeply, tastes the fresh mountain air on his tongue, follows the chill all the way down into his lungs.

Cold spreads out to his fingertips.

While they have frequented numerous ski courses since Aramis turned well enough to move about unaided – and with mostly positive results – none of them have been true downhill courses.

It all comes down to this one.

Shaking off his discomfort a bit more sternly, Athos looks up the slope, willing himself to focus.

Some things are different, this time around.

They can’t see him, for starters, making his way down to them. There is no big screen showing his progress: the way he moves over the dips, in the turns, during a jump. No way for them to get a read on him, his body language, his state of mind. They are completely blind.

Athos isn’t sure whether that’s better or worse.

“He’ll be alright,” Porthos mumbles next to him, eyes glued to the slope, words like a prayer. “He’ll be alright.”

The big man is tense as a statue, as if the mere act of breathing could thaw the tentative hope surrounding them like freshly fallen snow. Athos can’t really blame him, his own insides having knotted themselves together like a bundle of last year’s Christmas light trail. But despite their unease, Aramis needs this.

He might be physically whole.

His mental state is another matter entirely.

The course shouldn’t take more than two minutes to complete, but Athos is certain that Porthos will agree with him that it’s been close to two _hours_ before they finally spot Aramis at the beginning of the final stretch.

Porthos releases a relieved breath next to him, but Athos can’t allow himself to relax. Not yet.

Aramis moves like this is what he was born to do, movements fluid, body like an extension of the course itself, and while he might not be up to his usual speed, might not move as confidently as he did eight months ago, he certainly isn’t holding back, either.

It’s almost anticlimactic when he finally breaches the finish line, and promptly flops down on his stomach. White powder chasing him like a nebulous cape.

Rumbling laughter joins the sound of harsh breathing as Porthos makes his way over, crouching.

“You alright?” he asks, face split into a huge grin as he works to remove the helmet from the heaving form of their third.

Aramis rolls over onto his back, blinks up at them, dark curls plastered to his flushed face and grin matching Porthos’ in its intensity, and a sound, delirious and giddy and slightly hysterical escapes his lips, and then he’s full out laughing.

It chases away the last unease, dissolves the last shreds of lingering tension and, finally, Athos relaxes.

After weeks, months of hardship, frustration, of uncertainty, finally.

Finally.

Something settles back into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything seems to have worked out in the end! Did you honestly expect anything else? ;)
> 
> Now, here's the thing: I sort of have a vague idea for a sequel. Or, more like an intermediate, about some of the things that happened during those eight months between chapter 7 and the epilogue. This brings me to the two questions I need to ask you: 1) Is this something that would interest you? and 2) Is there anything in particular you'd like to see happen? It can be as unspecific as, "I'd like someone to say this one phrase at one time or other." Obviously, I can't promise I'll include all of your suggestions, or that they will come out the way you meant them to, but prompts/ideas would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> Even so... I should inform you that this sequel/intermediate, *if* it gets written, is months away, not days or weeks. So a healthy amount of patience needs to be exercised (but at least I leave you with some modicum of hope; that's gotta account for something, no?)
> 
> Thank you all again for your support!

**Author's Note:**

> Not too much happening in this first chapter, I know, but if you just bear with me to the next one... *dangles enticing promises of brotherly angst*


End file.
